


Love Language

by thecaryatid



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:41:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25888252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecaryatid/pseuds/thecaryatid
Summary: Ingrid has the poetic talent of a doorknob. She tries to write Dorothea a poem anyway.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Ingrid Brandl Galatea
Comments: 5
Kudos: 65





	Love Language

“My Ingrid,” Dorothea said, sending a flutter through Ingrid’s stomach as always. “What _are_ you focusing so intently on? I might become jealous if you keep giving that book so much more attention than you’re paying me.” 

“Nothing! It’s nothing.” Ingrid slammed the book—journal, really—shut with more fervor than she intended. It wasn’t ready yet; Dorothea couldn’t see it yet. 

“Really? It doesn’t look like nothing. What is it? A new recipe? Some letter from an admirer?” Dorothea gestured through the air to some imagined audience, smirking more wickedly with every possibility. “Oh, I know—a scandalous tale of love and adventure. Have you started write about Loog again, dearest?” 

Ingrid cursed her easily-flushed skin as she felt the heat of a blush travel from her heart to her cheeks. “It isn’t any of those things,” she said despairingly, avoiding Dorothea’s amused gaze. “It’s nothing important, okay?”

“Well, you’ve been scribbling in that journal for days. I wasn’t entirely kidding about getting jealous. Come on, Ingrid, you know you can tell me about whatever you’re writing.” Dorothea sat next to Ingrid on their spacious sofa, knees just touching, leaning over to lace her fingers reassuringly through Ingrid’s. 

And of course Ingrid could tell Dorothea anything, but this wasn’t ready yet. Days Ingrid had spent reading snippets of opera, writing combinations of words in her notebook, trying to mimic the rhythm of the stage’s finest verses, working toward a creation that might never be high art but at least wouldn't be laughably bad. She’d even—ugh—asked Sylvain for advice, and walked away with a few useful tips about flattering words mixed in with the innuendo and friendly mockery. It still wasn’t enough to turn her sad, jolting songwriting endeavor into anything listenable, or even readable. Honestly, she was starting to accept that her attempts might never be good, and they certainly would never equal the wit of Dorothea’s eyes or the resplendence of her smile.

But hiding them away seemed wrong, intended as they were for Dorothea. “Okay,” Ingrid flipped to the most recent page. “Just promise not to laugh.” 

Dorothea, of course, was laughing already. “Ingrid, you know that’s the only promise I can never keep. Now, spill.” 

“Dorothea,” it felt oddly formal, “I realize that I haven’t always been terribly enthusiastic about your interests.” Fashion, arts and opera, all the fine things in life Dorothea threw her energy into. “I mean, about things that are important to you. I wanted to express my feelings in a medium that’s dear to your heart.” Ingrid sighed down at the latest attempt, half scribbled out and barely legible, but not thoroughly enough to hide how she’d tried to rhyme ‘lovestruck’ and ‘incorrupt’. “I’ve been trying to write a song for you.” 

“That’s so _sweet_!” Dorothea brushed the briefest kiss over Ingrid’s cheek before easing the book out of her hands. “Is it in here? Can I read it?” low and rushed, eager and fond. 

Ingrid nodded, squeezing her hands to keep herself from snatching it back. “I don’t think it’s very good.” She considered the meter that aimed for iambs but ended up bumbling along like someone blended a handful of scrap metal into a sonnet; the rhymes that were, at best, slanted. “It’s extremely bad.” 

“Come now, it can’t be that terrible.” Dorothea had begun flipping through pages already and squinted to read Ingrid’s neat, crossed-out handwriting. Her eyes widened with each line. She turned to a new page, grinning broader until she couldn’t hold back her laughter. 

“Ingrid,” Dorothea gasped out between fits of mirth, “this is _horrible_. I’m keeping it forever.” She dodged easily away as Ingrid tried to grab the journal from her. 

“Or you could hand it back and pretend it doesn’t exist until I manage something better.” 

“I could,” Dorothea looked downright gleeful. “But honestly, I think I prefer this. It’s so sincere! And I can’t decide what my favorite part is. You know, I don’t think I can resist declaiming some of this.”

Writing the wretched, mistaken, mismatched words was one thing; hearing them read back to her was quite another. “Are you really going to make me listen to that?” Ingrid asked, but the answer was already obvious in Dorothea’s focused eyes, the care with which she looked from one page to another, evaluating and eager.

“Oh, only a bit. This _is_ a present for me, right? Would you really keep me from reading my present out loud, dearest?” Dorothea said, voice bubbling over with merriment.

What an unfortunately fair point. “Just try to keep it short,” Ingrid said, surrendering to her wife’s enthusiasm.

“Short, yes, of course. I suppose that means I have to make it count.” Dorothea lingered dreadfully over each page, prolonging the torment, gasping dramatically and then moving on. “I think I’ve found it, dearest. Never fear, it isn’t your worst attempt. But it also definitely isn’t your best.”

“I suppose I accept my fate,” Ingrid said, snuggling closer and resting her head against Dorothea’s shoulder. She was about to be obliterated by the force of her own words read back to her, but she might as well be comfortable.

“Just one little couplet. _I’m your shining knight, and you’re the effervescence of my life_ ,” Dorothea stopped, giggling. “This is so _cute_! Although I’m not sure what _effervescence of my life_ means. Do you think you could explain?”

“This is exactly what I was afraid of,” Ingrid whispered, visions of failed literature classes dancing before her eyes. “It means that you’re bright and bubbly, I suppose.”

“You make me sound like an expensive champagne,” Dorothea said. “I think I like that. Shall I go on?” She squinted down at another page, one particularly scribbled-out. “Does this say… something about _horses_? And _not getting divorces_? It isn’t terribly poetic, but I’m _so_ glad you wanted to immortalize your preference for _not getting divorces_ in verse.”

Ingrid buried her face against Dorothea’s shoulder, hiding her blush. “I did realize that one was really bad. And you promised just one couplet. That’s one and a half couplets now.”

“Oh, I did promise that, didn’t I. Well, I’ll have to talk you into listening to more of your poetry some other time.” Dorothea placed the journal gently back into Ingrid’s lap. “I’m trusting you not to throw this away. I really do want to keep it forever.”

Ingrid curled her fingers around the spine of the journal, finding that she despised it less now. “I adore you, you know.” She leaned up to kiss Dorothea, a slow, gentle thing full of unhurried breaths.

“And I adore you just as much, and maybe the tiniest smidge more,” Dorothea said, cuddling Ingrid closer.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Rest Day Zine! You can find it [here.](https://twitter.com/RestDayZine)
> 
> [im on twitter](https://twitter.com/thecaryatid)


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